On Friday evening Laurel drives to Hanna’s flat, from where they will get an Uber together to the restaurant in Islington.
“Wow,” says Hanna upon opening her front door. “Mum, you look gorgeous.”
Laurel swishes the skirt of her new dress. It’s black with an Oriental print of birds and flowers. It has a halter neck, buttons down the front, and is made of silk. “Thank you!” she says. “Ellie helped me choose it.”
An echoing silence spreads between them. “Oh,” says Laurel. “Did I just say Ellie?” “Yes, you did.”
“I meant Poppy. Obviously. Sorry. All this shopping with young girls must be messing with my time lines.”
“Must be,” said Hanna.
“And you look lovely, too,” Laurel says, trying to leave her faux pas as far behind her as possible. “Have you had your hair done?”
“Yes, I had a cut and blow-dry on Wednesday.”
For your big romantic night out with T, no doubt, Laurel thinks but does not say. “Very nice. I like it that length.”
They sit in a companionable silence in the back of the minicab. It has always been thus with Hanna. She rarely feels the need to converse. It’s taken Laurel a long time to lose her conviction that this is a symptom of her own failings as a mother.
Outside the restaurant Laurel breathes in hard. They’re two minutes early and she has no idea of what lies inside, of who might be sitting at that table. It could be any number of awkward combinations of people, the most excruciating of which would be Paul, Bonny, Floyd, and Poppy. Her skin crawls at the very thought of it and she wishes she’d thought to meet Floyd elsewhere first.
But as they are led across the restaurant toward their table in a glass room at the back, she sees that only Floyd and Poppy are seated and she breathes a sigh of relief.
Floyd stands to greet them both. He looks incredibly attractive tonight. He is wearing a fitted ink-blue suit with a slim black tie and his salt and pepper hair is swept back off his forehead with some kind of product. And Poppy looks refreshingly normal in her new checked shirt worn over a fitted jersey dress with black leather lace-up boots. They look just right, thinks Laurel; they look like us.
“How incredibly good to meet you,” says Floyd, his hand out to Hanna, his eyes bright with genuine pleasure.
Hanna gives him her hand. “You too,” she says.
Then Poppy follows suit. “You’re so pretty,” she says. “I’m so happy to meet you.”
Hanna flushes slightly at the bluntly delivered compliment and mumbles something under her breath that Laurel can’t hear.
They take their seats and then all get to their feet again when Paul, Bonny, Jake, and Blue arrive. Laurel turns her hands into fists and plasters a facsimile of a smile onto her face. She’s been told by both her children not to worry, that Bonny is a nice person, that she’ll like her, that she’s sweet, but still, it’s a huge moment and magnified tenfold by the presence of her own boyfriend and the impending introductions that that will involve; for a brief moment Laurel feels as though she is going to turn liquid and pool to the floor.
But other people save her from herself. Bonny heads straight to Laurel, looks her directly in the eye, presses her hands against Laurel’s forearms, then enfolds her inside her soft, welcoming body that smells of violets and talcum powder and says in the voice of a woman who has smoked and drunk and cried and sung, “At bloody last. At long bloody last.”
Floyd meanwhile has made his way straight to Paul to shake his hand and tell him what an honor it is to meet him; there is a moment of gentle hilarity as they realize that they are dressed virtually identically and that they are in fact wearing exactly the same Paul Smith socks.
“Look,” says Paul, pressing himself up against Floyd. “Twins!”
As onerous meetings between exes, new partners, old partners, and various children go, Laurel thinks, it really has been at the upper end of the scale.
She sits between Floyd and Bonny. Paul sits at Bonny’s other side with Hanna at the head of the table, and Jake, Poppy, and Blue are opposite. Blue looks sour-faced and disgusted to be here and Laurel can only imagine the emotional wrangling that Jake must have undertaken to get her to agree to coming tonight. If Blue had her way, they would never leave their cottage.
But Blue is the only dark point in the proceedings. Laurel looks around the table and sees a best-case scenario. No one would ever guess, she thinks, no one would know how weird this is, how extraordinary. Even Hanna is smiling as she chats with her dad and opens his gift to her.
A waiter brings two bottles of preordered champagne and fills all their glasses. It feels as though someone should get to their feet to raise a toast to the birthday girls, but there is hesitation because, of course, who should it be? Without Floyd, Paul would be the obvious candidate: father to one, ex-husband to the other. But with Floyd it’s not so clear-cut, and the hesitation builds and builds until suddenly, unexpectedly, Poppy gets to her feet.
She grips her half-glass of champagne between her hands and looks around the table from person to person, her focus not wavering. “I’ve only known Laurel for a couple of weeks,” she begins, perfect diction, unerring poise. “But in that time I’ve got to know her well enough to consider her to be a true and beautiful friend. She’s so kind and so generous, and my father and I are so lucky to have her in our life. And now I can see that she is not the only lovely person in her family. I know I’ve only just met you all, but I can feel how much you all love each other and I feel honored to be a part of all this. To Laurel”—she raises her glass—“and to Hanna. And to happy families!”
There’s a brittle silence, just long enough to acknowledge the strangeness of Poppy’s pitch-perfect speech, the irony of her comment about happy families, before everyone else raises their glasses and says, “To Hanna, to Laurel, happy birthday.”
Paul catches Laurel’s eye from the other end of the table and throws her a conspiratorial whatthefuck look. She smiles tightly at him. She wants to join in with his wry judging but she feels strangely loyal to Poppy. She’s young. She has no mother. She doesn’t go to school. She doesn’t know.
Bonny turns to her as they all put down their glasses and says, “I hope you know I’ve been wanting this to happen for an awfully long time.”
Bonny has an unruly face: a wide mouth that moves in all directions at once, a dip and a curve in her nose, one eyebrow sits higher than the other, and her chin has a scar running through it. But it all works together somehow and Laurel can see that she is beautiful.
“Yes,” says Laurel. “I know. I’m sorry I wasn’t ready before. It was never anything to do with you. I promise.”
Bonny’s hand covers hers. Her nails are short and painted red. “Of course I know that. And Paul has never spoken about you in any way that wasn’t positive and generous. I’ve always understood. And I understand now, too. You’re moving on, because you can. You couldn’t before. There’s a right time for everything. Don’t you think?”
Laurel nods and smiles and thinks, Well, maybe not. Maybe, for example, there’s not a right time to lose your child. But she doesn’t say it because this nice woman is trying her hardest and this is an important conversation, one that will set the tone for a relationship that could last the rest of her life.
Paul reaches across and passes Laurel a wrapped gift. “Happy birthday,” he says.
Laurel tuts. “Oh Paul,” she says, “you didn’t have to. That’s just . . .” “It’s nothing, really.”
“Shall I open it now?”
He shrugs. “Yes. Why not.”
She unpeels the paper and uncovers a book. The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt. “I hope you haven’t read it?”
“No,” she says, turning it over to read the back cover blurb. She hasn’t read a book for ten years.
“Ooh, that book is brilliant,” says Poppy. “Oh,” says Paul, “you’ve read it?”
“Yes,” she replies. “I read two books a week. At least.” “Wow,” says Paul. “And you enjoyed it?”
“Loved it.” She picks the book up and holds it between her hands, caressing the sides of it lovingly. “It’s about a boy who goes to a museum and his mum gets blown up by a bomb. He steals a small painting in the midst of the chaos and
then spends the rest of his life trying to hide it from everyone. It’s set in New York.”
“Sounds brilliant,” says Laurel.
Poppy nods. “It really, really is.” Her face lights up as she talks.
“I must say,” says Laurel, “that for a girl who thinks humanity is just a tedious mistake, you seem to have a lot of enthusiasm for novels. What is it about fiction that you enjoy?”
Poppy’s hands fall onto the book. “Stories,” she says, “are the only thing in this world that are real. Everything else is just a dream.”
Laurel and Paul smile and nod. Then they turn to each other and exchange a look. Not a wry look this time, but one of disquiet.
Ellie used to read two books a week and when they teased her about always having her nose in a book, Ellie used to say, “When I read a book it feels like real life and when I put the book down it’s like I go back into the dream.”
Laurel picks up her champagne and raises it to Poppy. “Cheers to that, Poppy,” she says, “cheers to that.”
 |
The evening is enjoyable. A success. Poppy does slightly attempt to hijack proceedings but as she is so obviously the youngest at the table and everyone is looking for some extra social glue to keep the whole precarious thing stuck together, she gets away with it.
“What a delightful girl,” Paul whispers in her ear as they’re filing out of the restaurant at eleven o’clock. “Doesn’t she remind you in a funny way of . . .”
Laurel knows what he’s going to say before the word is out of his mouth. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, in some ways. She really does.”
“That thing about the book. The reality and the dreams.” He shakes his head wonderingly.
“I know. I know. Weird.”
“And looks like her, a bit, too?” “A bit,” she agrees. “Yes.”
“Funny,” he says, plucking his coat from a coat rack, “that you’ve found yourself in a lookalike family.”
“A what?”
“Well, he looks a bit like me, too, doesn’t he?” His tone is light but Laurel blanches.
“Er, no,” she says, “not really. Just the hair. And the clothes.”
Paul looks at her fondly, realizing that he’s crossed one of her many lines, the lines he knows so well. “Yes,” he says. “That’s true. I like him,” he adds conciliatorily. “He seems like a good man.”
“Well,” she says, briskly, “it’s early days yet. We’ll see, won’t we?”
“Yes.” He smiles. “Of course, there’s still plenty of time for him to prove himself to be an utter psychopath. Plenty of time.”
She laughs. It’s nice talking to someone who knows her better than anyone else in the world. It’s nice talking to Paul.
“You know,” he continues, “you know you deserve this, don’t you? You know you’re allowed it?”
She shrugs, feeling a rush of heat up the back of her sinuses. “Maybe,” she manages quietly. “Maybe.”
